That afternoon Magdalen had taken more than usual pains with her toilet, and Celine, the French maid, whom Mrs. Walter Scott had introduced into the house, had gone into ecstasies over the long, beautiful curls which fell almost to Magdalen’s waist and somewhat softened her dashing style of beauty. Roger, too, had complimented her, when about four o’clock he came in, saying he was going to drive out a mile or two from Millbank, and asking her to accompany him. The day was very cold, and with careful forethought he had seen that she was warmly clad,—had himself put the hot soap-stone to her feet, and wrapping the fur robes around her, had looked into her bright face and starry eyes, and asked if she was comfortable. On their return to Millbank, he had carefully lifted her from the sleigh and carried her up the steps into the hall, where he set her down, calling her Mother Bunch, with all her wraps around her, and trying to help her remove them. Roger was a little awkward in anything pertaining to a woman’s gear, but he managed to unpin the shawl and untie the ribbons of the pretty, coquettish rigolette, which were in a knot and troubled him somewhat, bringing his face so close to Magdalen’s that her curls fell across his shoulder and he felt her breath upon his cheek. “Your ride has done you good, Magda. You are looking charmingly,” he said, when at last she was undone and stood before the fire. He was obliged to go out again, and as it was not likely he should return till late, they were not to wait dinner for him,—he said. Something in his manner toward her more than his words had affected Magdalen with a sweet sense of happiness, and her face was radiant as she met Frank in the hall, and went with him to the dining-room, where dinner was waiting for them. She explained that Roger would not be there, and then, as Frank took the head of the table, rallied him upon his awkwardness in carving and his absent-mindedness in general. He had a bad headache, he said, and after dinner was over and they had adjourned to the library, where their evenings were usually passed, he lay down upon the couch and looked so pale and tired, that Magdalen’s sympathy was awakened at once, and she insisted upon doing something for him. Since their return from New York she _had_ been far more familiar in her intercourse with him than she would have been had she not believed there was something between him and Alice Grey which might ripen into love. With no fears for herself, she could afford to be _very_ gracious, and being naturally something of a coquette, she had tormented and teased poor Frank until he had some reason for believing that his affection for her was returned, and that his suit would not be disregarded should he ever urge it upon her. With the remembrance of Roger’s words and manner thrilling every nerve, she was in an unusually soft, amiable mood to-night, and knelt at last by Frank’s side and offered to bathe his aching head.